


A Typical McClane Christmas

by Severina



Category: Live Free or Die Hard (2007)
Genre: Community: sexy_right
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-24
Updated: 2011-12-24
Packaged: 2017-10-28 00:06:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/301578
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An explosion, a firefight, and a loved one in peril. So.. a typical McClane Christmas, then.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Typical McClane Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Written for LJ's sexy_right community, for the "Hard for the Holidays" challenge.

John won't ask his team to do anything he won't do. Which is why he's putting in four hours reviewing the Braden surveillance report. At One Police Plaza. On Christmas Day.

Perhaps reviewing isn't the right word, he thinks. Mindlessly staring works better.

John shoves the file aside and leans back in his battered chair, steals a glance at the clock before he surveys his skeleton staff. Most of them are gathered in groups of two or three, doing more drinking of eggnog and eating of Maloney's wife's gingerbread cookies than actual police work. On Christmases past John would have sent them all home and pulled a twelve or sixteen hour shift himself. But this Christmas it's different. This Christmas, Matt is waiting for him.

He smiles a little thinking of Matt that morning, sleep-warm and blinking fuzzily at him from beneath the mound of blankets the kid insists on piling on his side of the bed. Every morning that John wakes up and sees him there, still there, he feels a shock-surge of surprise and wonder. That it really wasn't gratitude for saving his life or misplaced hero worship or a superhero crush that brought Matt to his bed and his life; that when Matt framed his face with those long flexible fingers and said, "it's you, McClane, okay? I love you, you jackass", he actually meant it.

And though there's been an adjustment period – John been used to silence for so long that occasionally he wants to stuff a gag in the kid's mouth just so he can get some peace and quiet, and he's had to stifle the urge to pull his piece on the speakers when Matt starts blasting that caterwauling noise – overall, the rhythm of his life has adapted smoothly to Matt's presence. In fact, the thought of his life _without_ one shaggy-haired ex-hacker who talks incessantly, strews computer parts on the dining room table and knows every line in all the original Star Wars movies just isn't worth contemplating.

He never would have believed it could happen, but he loves the damn egghead.

He sneaks another glance at the clock. Fifteen minutes until he can haul ass. He could use the time to make a few notes on the Braden file, or… He glances at the phone, starts dialing the number before he even realizes he's made up his mind.

"Heyyyyy," Matt says. "Hi! What are you doing calling? What time is it? Aren't you supposed to be on your way home by now?"

John shifts the phone to his other ear. The kid sounds wired, but John can't tell if that's because being alone with two younger only slightly less asshole-ish McClanes is winding him up tighter than usual, or because he's decided to start in on his infamous red-bull-and-vodka concoction a little earlier than expected. It's also possible that the McClanes drove him to the vodka.

"Just thought I'd check in with you before I take off," John answers. "How's it going?"

"Oh. You know. Fine! Yeah, it's.. it's been… great? Um…"

"Matt," John says sharply. "Is Jack giving you a hard time?"

"What? No. Totally no. It's just... okay, don't panic, all right? But your oven kind of exploded."

John sits up straighter in the chair, clenches the phone in his fist. "KIND OF?"

"It was pretty radical, John," Matt says, awe in his voice. "There was this huge POP and then the oven door shot straight across the room, it was nuts! Total crazitude, man. Don't worry, though," he adds quickly, "the turkey survived! We're going to boil it, Lucy read about this thing online and it turns out Dave in 2B, you know the guy with the shih tzu and the dreadlocks? Not that the shih tzu has dreadlocks, obviously, but anyway Dave, the guy, he actually has a huge crockpot, so—"

"Jesus Christ, Matt, I don't give a fuck about-- Is everyone all right?"

"Oh. Yeah, we're cool. You totally need a new cupboard door, though."

* * *

Boiled turkey, John thinks later, tastes about as good as it sounds.

The dinner goes better than expected, though, soggy fowl notwithstanding. Lucy's either warned Jack to be on his best behaviour or his son really is as okay with John's new relationship as he's let on, and Lucy herself only slips and call him _John_ once during the meal. Matt and Jack keep up a running dialogue about some new video gadget; John understands about one in every three words and is perfectly okay with that.

Once every last morsel of turkey product has been wrapped in foil to be sent home with his children, John wanders into the living room and flops down on the sofa next to Matt. Jack is absorbed in some kind of video conference with his girlfriend on the high tech gadget he calls a phone. Matt and Lucy are equally absorbed in a video game that seems to involve trying to kill each other with no kind of automatic weaponry that he's ever seen in his life. John, for his part, is content to drop his arm across the back of the sofa and let his fingers roam through the soft hair at the nape of Matt's neck.

"You are so about to be pwned!" Matt cackles.

"Ohhh," Lucy laughs, "I don't think so."

John doesn't even try to keep up with what Matt's fingers are doing on the controller. He slits his eyes half-closed instead, happy to mostly coast in a tryptophan haze. On the big screen, one of the ridiculously bulging warrior types is closing in on a bikini clad ice princess with big hair and bigger tits.

"Oh yeah, you're going down," Matt yells.

"Wait a minute," John mutters. He sits up a little straighter. "Hey," he says sharply, "is that supposed to be you, there?"

"Chill out, Dad," Lucy says. "It's not like I have a choice in what my character is wearing. Anyway, check out Farrell. Not exactly _life-like_ over there."

"Hey," Matt protests. "I have muscles! Tell her, John."

"Sure, you got muscles. Between your ears, meathead," Lucy scoffs.

John's not sure just how, but the warrior princess on the screen is suddenly twisting and spinning in an elaborate maneuver that would make the Cirque du Soleil proud, and the muscle-bound warrior is on the ropes. John's fingers drop away from Matt's hair as the kid leans forward in his seat, and John alternates between watching Matt's fingers twisting frantically on the controller and the advance of the ice princess on the big screen. He winces just a little at each bullet that rips too-realistically into the warrior's body, leans back and shakes his head.

"Shit," Matt shouts. "Shit. Shiiiiit!!!"

"Jesus, can you keep it down over there?" Jack calls over irritably.

"Shiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!"

"And that," Lucy says with a smirk, dropping the controller at Matt's feet, "is how you kick ass at Hydra Warrior."

* * *

"You are way too tense," Matt says.

John groans and turns his head into the pillow when Matt settles himself lightly on the backs of his thighs. The only illumination is the thin sliver of light coming from the bathroom, and the apartment is blissfully quiet. Lucy and Jack said their good-byes twenty minutes ago, and John had taken one look at the detritus of dirty glasses and pie-encrusted plates and decided the entire mess could wait until the morning. He might have set land-speed records getting out of his clothes and flopping face first onto the mattress, and the only thing he wants to do now is sleep.

The kid, apparently, has other ideas. His warm hands smooth soothingly over John's shoulders, dip between his shoulder blades to knead expertly at the taut muscles.

"Mmm," John murmurs. "You're good at this."

"You've just gotta learn to relax," Matt says. "It's only Christmas."

John grunts. Only Christmas. It's true that in fifty-two Christmas celebrations, there have only been two that have been spectacular pieces of shit. But when those two consist of bad guys shooting, stabbing and punching you repeatedly while simultaneously kidnapping and/or threatening the person you love, they tend to be the ones you focus on the most. And maybe, sometimes, you tend to think that if history liked repeating itself once, it just might do it again. This time involving the supersmart whiz-kid you happen to be in love with. "Kid," John says, "if you only knew."

Matt is quiet for long enough that John thinks that maybe he's going to drop the whole thing. He lets himself melt into the mattress, thinks of nothing but Matt's firm hands on his skin. He lets his eyes drift closed.

"You know," Matt finally says into the silence, "there's no more Grubers."

John opens his eyes. "What?"

Matt laughs. "Hello? Hacker?"

" _Ex_ hacker," John points out.

"Okay, fine, true. But honestly John, like I wasn't going to research the shit out of you? Anyway, it's amazing the things you can find out on the internet these days, if you know where to look. There's no more Gruber brothers. No Gruber sons or daughters, either. Not even a Gruber grandpa. Also, no deposed dictators flying in or out of New York airspace in the foreseeable future. And Bowman says, and I quote, 'I assure you that the national security infrastructure is in safe hands without your interference, Mr. Farrell, and I remind you to stop calling this line', end quote."

John has to laugh despite himself. "You called Bowman?"

"Better safe than sorry," Matt says.

Only Matthew Farrell would harass the head of cyber security of the goddamn Federal Bureau of Investigation on Christmas Day.

John knows that, to everyone else, his fear of getting caught up in yet more Christmas mayhem is a running joke. 'Oh ho, it's the holidays, better lock McClane down', ha ha fucking ha. Matt might know that the fear is irrational – hell, the kid's got enough irrational fears of his own to recognize this one for what it is – but he still did what he could do to make it better. He fucking called Bowman, and if John knows Matt even a little bit he knows that somewhere on that monstrosity of a computer that takes up an entire wall of the spare room there's a file listing the complete genealogy of the Gruber clan.

John remembers telling Matt once, in the aftermath of the horrible nightmares the kid suffered after the fourth, that there wasn't a goddamn thing he wouldn't do for him. It's always a little surprising and a little terrifying and a whole lot overwhelming to realize that maybe there's not a thing Matt Farrell wouldn't do for him, either.

And suddenly John's not even a little bit tired.

He's acutely aware of every place he and Matt touch – Matt's firm young thighs bracketing his, Matt's fingertips kneading gently at the back of his neck, Matt's cock half-hard and nestled in the crack of his ass. What was a moment ago a relatively ordinary massage now seems to crackle with electricity, and John wants only to touch in return. To taste.

He takes a second to figure out exactly how he's going to manage it. Then he twists his torso and grabs Matt's bicep while scissoring out his legs, and… well, it's not quite as neat and clean as his academy days, but it gets the job done. Matt is now spread out beneath him and much better looking than any damn perp he ever tried that maneuver on.

Matt laughs and blows his bangs out of his eyes. "Impressive," he says.

"Lucy's not the only one that's got moves."

"Whaaat? Seriously, McClane, never _ever_ mention your daughter when you're pinning me to the bed and your dick is like millimeters away from my—"

John surges forward, licks and nips at Matt's full bottom lip until the kid shudders and parts beneath him. His hand dips between them, roams over the smooth expanse of Matt's chest, finds and tweaks a nipple, and when Matt arches beneath him and moans into his mouth, John smiles.

Yeah, he loves the kid – even his goddamn endless chatter. But he doesn't think there's going to be much more talking tonight.


End file.
